


BREEZE IN YOUR FACE

by Imworriedsomeonesgoingtofindthisaccount



Series: RUBY [2]
Category: Sex Education (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imworriedsomeonesgoingtofindthisaccount/pseuds/Imworriedsomeonesgoingtofindthisaccount
Summary: In my head, Ruby is that one girl who puts on airs but everyone remembers when she got drunk off of a sip of sparkling wine in year 9 and collapsed and smashed her head on someone's kitchen counter then pretended like it literally never happened even though there's video footage of it--In this fic there shall be no collapsing or smashing of heads however. Chill vibes all around
Relationships: Otis Milburn/Ruby (Sex Education)
Series: RUBY [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711888
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	BREEZE IN YOUR FACE

**Author's Note:**

> REUPLOADED bc ive decided to embrace the fact that im not a v good writer. This will be here for the very dedicated shippers to witness, if they should like. ABJECT WORSHIP ONLY in the comments please, can't really handle anything else (bare jokes, please give me your constructive feedback, it helps me grow and I am very open to it... JK JK. Or...?) either way, i love you, i hope you have a wonderful week and come into a lot of money

This party sucks. Obviously. She hadn’t expected a blowout for the ages, but she doesn’t try to hide the curled lip at the sight of two gross theatre kids humping on a sofa while everbody else awkwardly pretends its not happening. Mumford and sons plays quietly from a speaker. Mumford and sons. Horrific playlist aside, what the fuck is the point of a party if you can hear yourself think? Jesus Christ, being at home would be better than this.

Somehow glaring pointedly at the entire room, and finally lays eyes on the misguided host, and makes her way over so that she can say what she ought to say, then depart with no regrets. She knocks back the rest of the tepid Lambrini, (getting drunk is  _ so  _ 2007, but it  _ is  _ only Lambrini. She’s pretty sure she’s barely even buzzed) and strides right up to the pink haired girl who’s currently droning on about Otis Wilde, or something. O...Owen Wilde? God, whatever. 

Ruby waits until all eyes are on her, before she enunciates clearly, “You’re boring.”

“O-Okay,” she stammers.

“You're all boring. All of you. And-And your party’s shit.”

The girl looks bewildered but only slightly hurt. Ruby would go for the KO, but for some reason she’s coming up blank on any poignant one liners. She pointedly slams the empty glass on the coffee table by her knees as she abandons the room . Dramatically pushing open the double doors, she embraces the crisp evening air- a damn welcome change from the stench of BO and Lynx body spray. 

Then she’s cold.

She doesnt allow herself to regret not listening to her mum, who had yelled, “Take your fucking coat! It’s the arse end of January! You’re dragging  _ yourself  _ down to the GP if you get sick, Ruby, you know how busy I am with your father!”

Because her mum’s kind of a bitch sometimes, and if she admits that she’s cold, then she’s also admitting that she was right. 

“Cold is a state of mind,” she says (rather unconvincingly) to the frosty air, watching her breath condense. She should go home. She looks down the road. It’s not far. Probably a fifteen minute walk. 

So she crosses the backyard, determined to suck it up and wear in her barely five-hour-old heels- but she suprises herself by giving up barely five minutes in. 

She sits down on the curb, frantically trying to rub warmth into her bare arms. 

_ You know _ , she reasons,  _ being at home  _ would _ be better than being at that so-called party. But would being at home be better than sitting on some dirty curb spotting cars? _

She thinks not. She’ll just… wait it out for a few hours. They’ll probably be asleep by then. Her parents. She takes off her heels, places them neatly besides her and folds her arms over her knees. After a while she notices that her forearms have been getting suspiciously wet. She looks up, but there’s not a cloud in the sky, which is uniquely abnormal for a British January. 

Oh… Oh wow. She touches her face. It’s damp. She then realises what's actually going on.

Wow. Pathetic. 

She talks aloud again. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, R-” She chokes on her name and bursts into tears. Great big, ugly sobs.

She hasn't cried since year nine, and that was only to manipulate the Miss Tetchly into letting her off cross country. 

She's clearly drunk. 

"I only had a Lambrini!" She wails aloud, going to slap the pavement then thinking better of it. Gels. Brand new. Instead, she wipes angrily at her eyes, and peers up and down the road to check for witnesses. No one except for the odd cyclist going too fast to notice anything and one pedestrian on the other side of the road. 

Her eyes welling up, the lone walker becomes nothing more than a wobbly blur in the distance, and she lets herself cry a bit. 

Only a little bit. She deserves it, she thinks. 

After a while, Ruby decides that enough is enough and staunches the waterworks. It'd be bloody embarrassing if she's spotted like this by anyone who might know her. She doesn't need to check a reflection to know that her makeup is perfectly in place (chemist make-up, she firmly believes, is reserved for tramps and Olivia. She'd die before stepping into a Boots.), but she does know that she gets horribly blotchy when she's emotional. It's why she's decided to do away with that kind of thing. 

She stands up, slips her feet back into her McQueen's and resumes the walk home at a brisk pace. Whatever that was, she decides she'll get over it. She still can't believe it. One (or three) Labrini's deep and she was blubbering on the side of the road, like a common teenager.

She doesn't laugh out loud, even though she's in the frame of mind to find that slightly funny.

A bell rings in the distance once. She has to take a note of the effect Lambrini seems to-

The Bell rings again, loudly and right behind her. 

"Ruby!"

"Jesus fuck," she mutters. Anyone else would have jumped and screamed. She'll privately admit to herself that she was this close to wetting herself. 

"What do you want, Otis?" She deadpans as he slows to a stop right besides her, slightly out of breath. 

He's not wearing that colour block jacket, but has replaced it with a somehow more offensive peach quilted coat. And by quilted,  _ quilted  _ is meant. It looks less like an article of clothing, and more like grandma's blanket with sleeves. He's got a shopping bag hanging onto his bike's handlebar, and Ruby's got a soul killing line there, about… about… middle aged… mid life crisis… Fuck, she's lost it. 

"I saw you," he huffs, "On the way to the shops, but I wasn't sure it was you."

She starts walking again, and Otis awkwardly shuffles along besides her, knocking his ankles on the pedals every couple of steps. 

"So… How are you doing?"

"Yeah, okay."

" _ Are _ you okay?" 

And Ruby looks over at him, so earnest all the time, and maybe a little bit dumb, but in a benign way.

Maybe it's the Lambrini effect, but that question is still hitting pretty hard, probably harder than the first time.

She shrugs though. "Yeah. I'm over it."

Otis nods, and they walk a few more yards before he offers to give her a ride. 

"On your  _ bike _ ?" She asks, and she's glad she's somehow managed to slip back into Regular Ruby, a judgmental eyebrow subtly rose. 

"Yeah," Otis says unabashedly, either oblivious or uncaring. 

She drops the attitude and sighs, followed by another shrug.

"Okay."

  
  


~~~

  
  


She buckles on the same baby blue helmet, and settles in behind him, watches the gravel blur slightly as he slowly begins to pedal. 

"Where are we going? Home? Think you could direct the way?" 

Her voice is caught in her throat when she tries to reply, and, oh great, 

she's crying into his appalling, pink, duvet jacket. 

"Sorry," she mutters thickly. "I've had a few Lambrinis."

"What was that?" He shouts.

She deigns to say nothing at all, and after a couple of pedals, he goes all matter-of-fact, "Well, you know. I was out buying microwave popcorn. We're having a movie night at home, me and my mum. Bruce Lee. Mum can drive you home after."

She sniffles loudly. 

"Yeah, okay. Thanks."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from another rico nasty song but i wrote this so long ago i cant quite remember what it was, i think ive gone off her since then
> 
> EDIT: It's Smack A Bitch, and the song still bangs actually go give it a listen if you wish.


End file.
